Source
Sitting in front of the blank page, he tried to find the inspiration that eluded him once again. His mentor's words echoed in his mind like a mantra:
‘Don't make verses about events. Poetry eludes subject and object.
Frustrated, he crumpled the paper and threw it into the basket. His life lacked the great dramas and inspirations of the classical poets.
How could he capture the beauty of his surroundings when poetry itself rejected such sources?
Staring out of the window into the night, he gazed out at the city that pulsed beyond the glass.
The lights, the sounds, the life... everything seemed to dance in a symphony that he was forbidden to portray.
‘Singing is neither nature nor men in society.
A sudden tapping on the glass startled him. A small bird had crashed against the window and lay motionless on the sill.
He watched it sadly, feeling a strange connection with the creature.
In a fit of rapture, he picked up a new piece of paper and began to write without thinking, letting the words flow from within him with an unprecedented freedom:
‘We are echoes of a voiceless poem,
timeless fragments of a formless verse.
The phrases gushed forth like a spring, far from any preconceived notion. The indescribable muse I had been searching for finally revealed herself in her sublime austerity.
As I was capturing the verses of that poetic revelation, the little bird came to life on the windowsill and took flight again with a light flutter.
In the distance, the city continued to dance its eternal melody, indifferent to the mysteries of inspiration.